


Sweet Temptation

by no-me-malone (queenallyababwa)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Feeding, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Food Sex, Force-Feeding, Hand Feeding, M/M, Mutual Gaining, Praise Kink, Sloppy Eating, Weight Gain, binge eating, the kink is real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22642636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenallyababwa/pseuds/no-me-malone
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale fall into domestic bliss in the days following Armaggedon. The only thing Crowley wants is a little more of everything.A series of vignettes involving an angel, a demon, their retirement from Heaven and Hell, and plenty of good food.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 92





	Sweet Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Was going to post this anonymously but fuck it, ya'll know I write for this kink. Also, the title is Bad and I know it but please take it easy on me. 
> 
> This was written as a gift for a friend. If you're reading this, you know who you are and you're the best.

Even after six thousand years, there are still things about a person that can surprise you.

As the weeks following Armageddon faded into months, and Crowley’s “You can stay at my place” effectively turned into an open invitation to move in together, the intimacy their newfound living arrangement sheds light on things they may have never known about each other.

Such as: they enjoy long walks together. In absolutely a cheesy, romantic way. They’ll stroll through Hyde Park, close, chatting and laughing about anything and everything - they still have so much to talk about. But sometimes as they walk hand-in-hand down the winding foot trails of the garden, they’ll stay silent and people watch. Both of them know there could have been an end to this,  _ all of this _ , and the significance of seeing another couple fumble on their first date or a family push a pram together is not unlost on them. 

And including: Aziraphale loves Colin Firth. Some of the pieces of home media he owns - he has an ancient television set from at least the mid-1990s complete with a VHS player tucked away in a cabinet in his upstairs sitting room. Its function, Crowley learns, was to watch the BBC miniseries of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ on a six-episode boxset. He doesn’t know  _ how _ it came into Aziraphale’s awareness, but Crowley can’t help but love watching him try to explain away why he acquired a television when he had been so obstinately against it for so long. 

But most importantly: Crowley loves to eat. 

This was actually the thing that surprised  _ him  _ the most. He had never given much thought to the consumption of human foods, taking nibbles off of Aziraphale’s plate every so often, enjoying an ice cream in the summer sun at St. James’. But now, as he sits at a table across from the former principality at one of London’s highly regarded dining establishments, he finds himself ordering more than just coffee. He starts to enjoy more than watching Aziraphale feast upon langoustine and fillet of fallow deer. 

Perhaps it’s because he’s in such close proximity to the angel. Perhaps it’s because he has to watch another being, with regular eating habits, enjoy three square meals a day plus plenty of snacking. Perhaps it’s because, one autumn night, Crowley comes home to his apartment in Mayfair, and Aziraphale is using the kitchen that has never-been-touched appliances to make butternut squash bisque. 

He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly picked up on it, or why it’s taken him six thousand years to even  _ start  _ but he knows he can’t go back. He’s bitten the apple, so to speak, and now he can’t go without the knowledge that Aziraphale makes incredible seared scallions and risotto. 

So the two of them are at equity. They’re both effectively retired (slash-fired) from the jobs in Heaven and Hell, respectively, and they both have literal eons of time stretching before them with not much else to do but enjoy each other’s company. It’s no wonder, while they’ve always met for dinner out as a pastime, that more and more of their time together involves food and consuming large quantities of it. 

Suddenly, however, he finds himself not wearing his snake belt.

He’s had it since 2003 when it was somewhat in fashion and it’s been a conversation piece for a while, but he . . . doesn’t have the need for it. His pants have been holding themselves up well that it doesn’t seem necessary. And then there’s the fact of the matter that he’s finding it incredibly . . . constricting, ironically. 

Angelic or demonic corporations are held to very few of the same limitations and functions as human bodies. But one of these select few things that aligned with the humans was weight gain and loss. 

Crowley hadn’t thought about it too much over the centuries. Aziraphale had grown softer, of course, over millennia of divulging into human cuisine. He had been particularly portly in the 1700s while he lived an aristocratic lifestyle and dined among noblemen; his round shape, he had claimed, had been to keep up appearances and blend in with what was fashionable with the time, but Crowley knew he found himself quite attractive that way. (And certainly, Crowley did as well even if he had to keep that opinion in the back of his mind for the past several centuries.)

As Crowley gives up starving himself (well, not starving, demons can’t technically starve themselves if they don’t need to eat), something about his corporation bends and then breaks. It seems as though he’s been set up for this, of course, with that metabolism that had been deprived all these years and now suddenly has an abundance of food and now a reptilian-like appetite to want to consume said abundance. 

All of this is leading up to the fact of the matter: Crowley loves food and he’s getting fat because of it.

Not  _ fat- _ fat. Just, rounder than before. He’s aware that his corporation has been described as “bean pole” with “chicken legs” before. But he starts to notice that his frame is adding a little more heft to it. What once was flat, perhaps toned, stomach now pushes out ever so slightly against his shirt. The legs of jeans pulled from the women’s section of a department store, tight to begin with, are filling out with his suddenly thicker thighs. And that ever so slight double chin he naturally has grows. 

He tries not to pay too much attention to it. He’s aware of it - how could he not - but he tries not to let it occupy his mind. It’s  _ relationship weight _ , a trend Crowley has been aware of for a long time living among humans. It’s not supposed to be that big of a deal and besides, he can miracle his clothes a little larger if need be. 

If he’s being honest, he likes it. He’s changed so much about his corporation over the ages with his hair and clothes matching the style du jour. He had his ears pierced in 1989, when it was very on-trend and then his navel six years later when that was making prominence. But his lanky frame stayed constant. There’s something exhilarating about doing something different, as there always was when it came to his body modifications. If he was gaining weight, he wasn’t going to try and impede it. He was going to something new and see where it led him. After all, that was what retirement was all about. 

But then Aziraphale brings it up.

It should be noted, of course, that Aziraphale has also put on some weight in the months following Armageddon. He was already eating and enjoying eating, but with Crowley now partaking in the activity, it seems like he’s eating and enjoying  _ more _ . The buttons of his vest strain ever so slightly over his stomach as he inches towards that decadent weight he was in 1793. He hasn’t taken notice that his frame is getting plumper, but Crowley can’t help but notice.

In the end, it’s the pot calling the kettle black as Crowley orders himself an appetizer with an entree, adding on an additional side than what came with the meal, at a brasserie near the bookshop. 

“Feeling famished today, aren’t we?” Aziraphale asks as the waiter takes their menus away.

Crowley is caught off-guard as he examined the dessert and menu He looks up and pushes his glasses, which had slid down the bridge of his nose as he looked over the listing, only able to sputter a, “What?”

“You ordered a very large meal for lunch today,” Aziraphale notes. It’s perhaps, for the first time ever, that his order is larger than the angel’s. 

He makes a noise of contemplation and admits, “Bit hungry, yeah.”

“Well, if you aren’t careful, you’ll end up at my size,” Aziraphale heeds with a good-natured laugh, clasped hands splayed over his belly as he lays back in his chair. 

It’s at this moment, Crowley decides to take the angel’s words as a challenge. If it’s boredom in his retirement or simple curiosity of what he would look like with  _ more _ , but he takes it into his own hands to see where he can take this. He’s already put on almost half a stone from just being in the angel’s presence, he wonders where he could be if he actually set his mind towards it.

However, it takes a while between his moment of decision and his moment of action. To gain as much weight as he wanted to, intentionally, he’s going to need to eat a lot more. He’s already eating so much so openly that he doesn’t know how he can eat additionally without being completely flustered at the amount he’s eating. (Besides, he knows he’s going to have to eat shitty, calorie-dense food in order to do this and he knows how Aziraphale feels about Cadbury sweets and McDonald’s burgers.)

He decides to go out every once in a while when Aziraphale is busy with the shop. He says he goes out just because he needs a change of scenery for the afternoon. “You know how it is,” he drawls because he doesn’t have much else of an excuse. And apparently, Aziraphale gets it and tells him to enjoy himself.

And he does. 

Crowley ventures out of SoHo with his Bentley and parks in front of a street that has a row of chippers and fast-food restaurants. He parks before ordering an obscene order of fried food. Fish ‘n chips, of course, but also onion rings and a chicken burger and several fried apple pies. He pops into a convenience store and grabs several bottles of soda to guzzle it down with, tossing in a packet of Malteasers and a Curly Wurly for good measure. 

With an apology to Mary, who as his car of eighty years has witnessed some of his low points, he goes to a carpark and consumes everything. He savors the grease of the food and the distinct flavor of old oil as he bites into the chips and pieces of haddock. He rolls the onion rings into a container of sauce that came stuffed in the paper sack and they quickly follow the chips. By then, he can only take a few bites of the chicken burger, but he goes straight for dessert. He always had a taste for apples, anyway, he muses to himself as he devours all three pies. All of this, of course, is washed down with the Fanta and Coca Cola he acquired. 

The food leaves him absolutely breathless and panting. Halfway through the meal, he has to let go of his (miracled) jeans and pop open the button to make some room and he watches his belly tent against the soft black tee-shirt he was wearing. He’s thankful for Mary’s seats being far away from the steering wheel so he’s able to lean back. His hand rests on his gut and he takes a break, determined to polish off the chicken burger, but he’s not entirely sure he can. 

Maybe he pushed himself too fast into this. After all, for the last six thousand years, he had been surviving on very little simply because it hadn’t appealed to him and he didn’t need it. Now that he has fallen for food, he’s eager to make up for lost time. But perhaps he should have eased into, starting small with his binges. 

He drifts off to sleep for a cat nap, dozing with his hands splayed over his swollen stomach. When he wakes, he notes the candy is sitting in the plastic bag that the sodas came with. Deciding that it’s better to just eat it rather than bring in undeserving (to Aziraphale’s high chocolate opinion) candy to the house, Crowley pops in the handful of the malted milk balls and then chews away at the chocolate-covered caramel. 

After buttoning his very tight pants, throwing away the evidence of the last two hours into a bin, and wiping his mouth and dusting away crumbs (promising Mary he’d hoover her a little later) Crowley comes home, hoping the smell of saturated fat doesn’t cling to his clothes, to Aziraphale’s bookshop an hour later, still looking quite bloated. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice as he’s thumbing through a new-to-him printing of Bible that had some very strange, somewhat deviant footnotes. 

Crowley tells him he’s going to take a nap and is later roused by Aziraphale kissing his temple and telling him dinner is almost ready. 

These outings are few and far between - he feels bad about hiding this part of himself from Aziraphale, but it’s for the best, really. He’s afraid of what the angel might think of him and his positively wicked behavior so instead, he just lets him continue believing that Crowley’s just getting bigger from what he’s eating in front of him. 

Within three months, Crowley’s gain tapers off at a full stone and a half from his original weight. It’s a significant difference to his cooperation to the point where his jeans look painted on and his stomach presses against the buttons of his shirt even when he’s not full. Aziraphale sees him one morning taking more than a minute to wiggle into his pants and suggests they go shopping for some new ones. Even after he acquires several new pairs, he still keeps the old ones, knowing he’ll enjoy seeing how different he is now. 

By month four, however, Crowley has stopped gaining weight. He doesn’t make as much effort to get out, preferring to stay in Aziraphale’s company. He’s heard enough from humans complaining about weight loss that it can plateau after a while and that it needs a bit more of a push to move back in that direction again. Although not exactly an expert in human physiology, he assumes that his corporation might be following similar rules. Therefore, he’s going to need a more intensive tactic. 

It comes to him one night while he’s lying awake in the drift before sleep, he figures out the perfect time he can sneak in food. Nearly every night, Aziraphale rests in bed with him before he tip-toes out to read his books without the possibility of disturbing his sleep. He spends all night in the sitting room and only rouses Crowley with the offering of breakfast. To Crowley’s knowledge, he doesn’t come in very often to check on him. It would be so easy to miracle up some food and enjoy it while Aziraphale was tucked in for the night. 

Crowley tests his theory one night a few days later. He pretends to fall asleep and he listens to the rustling of pages as Aziraphale reads his book. When it seems like he’s been out for a while, he can feel Aziraphale kiss the top of his head and brush his hair out of his eyes, before the mattress shifts with the disappearance of significant weight. The door opens softly before closing again with a soft  _ click.  _

When he’s sure that Aziraphale is gone, Crowley sits up in bed. Snapping his fingers, he locks the door before he gets to work. 

Miracled food isn’t quite as good as the real deal, but it will have to do. He can’t risk trying to sneak food from the kitchen because he still wants to keep things hidden from Aziraphale. Whatever he can conjure up is going to have to be what he settles for and hopes that it can do what he needs it to do. 

That first night, he starts small. The days in the car did damage to his waistline, but he knew he wasn’t going to run into Aziraphale in a random car park in London. In bed, he’s not too far away from Aziraphale, who is surely down the hall, fixing himself a mug of cocoa and reading  _ Anna Karenina  _ again. He could come back into the bedroom at any point, expecting to find a sleeping demon. 

The spread he makes for himself consists of sweets - donuts and biscuits. He’s found he can have quite the sweet tooth, especially this late at night. He tears through seven donuts and half a packet of iced biscuits with ease, but he conjured up a baker’s dozen so he pushes himself to finish. The second half of both the donuts and the biscuits take a lot longer, he has to breathe slowly through it. Deep, heavy breaths help and he somehow, he is able to finish eating all of the desserts before him. 

Filled with pride, he looks down at his bloated stomach that has made the elastic of his pajama pants. Tight and firm, just like it was those times in the Bentley, he rubs a hand down it feeling that it’s like the skin of a drum. 

Another snap of his finger and he’s miracled away the mess he’s left of packaging and crumbs - he knows that Aziraphale is going to complain about  _ the crumbs in the Egyptian cotton sheets _ . 

When he wakes up that morning, he’s still slightly bloated but not to the dramatic spherical nature it was the night before. Behind his dark tee-shirt and grey dressing gown, Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice and plates him a generous breakfast of eggs, sausage, and toast. 

Crowley starts out, just like those times in the car, very slowly and sporadically. But combined with what he’s eating, adding those extra calories right before he sleeps seems to take an effect. 

Between those secret binges in the Bentley and the late-night snacking, the plateau he settled on is swiftly overpassed and Crowley notices he’s getting rounder. A lot rounder. As he approached two full stone from his pre-End-of-the-World weight, the jeans he bought with Aziraphale are starting to look just like the old ones now, sinking into the protruding flesh of his ever-growing belly. In the mornings after he indulges, he stands in front of the mirror and admires his work. 

And of course the angel notices. He has to when Crowley started out as thin as he did, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, Crowley notices that some of his shirts returned from the laundry miracled a little larger. He doesn’t seem any the wiser about what Crowley does when he goes out for a stroll around town or late at night when he’s supposed to be tucked into bed. 

The thing about bad habits, of course, is that the more a person divulges, the sloppier they become.

Not only, as time wears on, is Crowley tucking away more food than he thought possible, but he is also doing it at an increased frequency. Every three-to-four days turns into every day until finally, Crowley is filling himself to the brim every night for at least a week straight. 

By the time he’s at two stone, he’s kept up with the nightly binging for at least a month. There was another shopping trip for jeans, now only two months after the last time they were out. He notices that Aziraphale tucks a pair of the next size up onto the stack as they go to make their purchase, so Crowley knows he’s at least aware he’s going to be needing them sooner rather than later. 

But the night that Crowley decides is the binge that will help him reach his goal of three stone total in the last few months, several events occur for him to slip up and blow his cover while they spend the weekend in his flat in Mayfair. 

The first being Aziraphale finding a packet of digestive biscuits and two wrappers of Cadbury chocolate tucked away in Crowley’s side drawer as he was looking for a jar of a particular lotion that the demon borrowed a while back. From the other side of the room, where Crowley was fussing with his button-down, he could see him pause for a moment before continuing rummaging through the drawer before he successfully found the bottle of Pecksniff. 

The second, and absolutely critical, error was having a binge when Aziraphale was so close to finishing a book. 

As he was “falling asleep” that night, he should have noticed that there were only about a hundred or so pages left in the novel Aziraphale was currently reading. He should have remembered that the current home of the “to-read” pile belonging to Crowley’s flat was located on the other bedside table. He should not have been that ambitious.

That night for dinner was light, soup and a salad, and Crowley was already hungry again. Besides, if he was going to make up for this and reach his goal, then he’s going to have to make up for the opportunity lost at dinner. 

When Aziraphale tucks out for the night to retreat to the living room in Crowley’s place, he makes quick work so that there is immediately a cake and a liter of chocolate milk in front of him. For whatever reason, perhaps because of the savory nature of dinner, he was craving chocolate. A fork is miracled alongside everything else before he starts to dig into the cake. Shoveling it into his mouth, Crowley relishes the flavor of vanilla layered in the rich frosting. Not quite as good as the cake Aziraphale gets from that high-end French patisserie, but it gets the job done. 

Crowley goes to wash the piece he ate down with a swig of chocolate milk from the carton, but the lip of the container misses his mouth and a large amount tribbles down his chin  _ Fuck.  _ He knows he’s going to have to miracle it out of his sheets but he doesn’t care. He’s too lost in getting as much in as possible that he downs most of the milk as it pulls down his front to his already bulging belly. 

He sets the chocolate milk down and takes a large forkful of cake before huffing. He’s stretched out his stomach well enough but he knows he’s going to need some room in order to enjoy the rest of the cake, so he rolls down the waistband of his pajama bottoms and shifts up the tighter tee shirt.

In only a few minutes, Crowley manages to cram the whole cake in, leaving the shirt and His finger trace the bottom of the tin of cake, scooping up the remainder of the icing as the other hand rests on the swell of his belly, full of admiration of all the sinful things he’s done to his human body. 

The door opens. 

Aziraphale is standing there with his book. He looks as if he has been frozen in time, clutching the un-dust-jacketed copy in his hands.

Crowley, also frozen in time, has his bloated belly on display between his thighs, his sleeping shirt tented out to make room and covered in the remains of his midnight snack. Frosting covers his rounding cheeks and chocolate milk dribbles off his chin.

Neither of them want to speak first - what do you  _ say  _ at a time like this - but it’s Aziraphale who is brave enough to take that step. “Well, I finished my book.”

Crowley is sure his face is an undiscovered shade of red because it certainly feels like the supposed fires of Hell. He can’t make eye contact, not in this state, so he looks away and mumbles, “Right.”

“Do you, um, want some help cleaning up?”

“Oh. Uh.” But before Crowley can say something else, Aziraphale snaps his fingers and instantly, the sheets and his clothes are laundered and it’s as if a washcloth was taken to his face and the frosting is wiped clean. 

“Thanks,” Crowley mumbles. He looks down at his engorged state and, most likely the most embarrassed he’s been within the past five decades, cups a hand to himself and tries to maneuver his positively unwieldy belly back under the covers so he can fall asleep for the next three centuries from sheer mortification. It’s a struggle to unfurl his legs, however, and difficult to do it alone while he’s stuffed. 

But Aziraphale is gentle. His expression has softened and he comes over to Crowley’s side “Here, let me.” And he helps him back into bed, pulling the dark blankets over him. A hand smooths the sheets and rests on his belly for a moment before sliding off.

“Would you mind if I stayed here tonight? Read another book?”

The hand returns to Crowley’s distended tummy and rolls gently over the swollen mound as he rests with his book in one hand. This is the way that Crowley is lulled to sleep. It’s so easy, anyway, with how much he ate, but it feels even better with Aziraphale comforting him.

And in the morning, Crowley wakes to an empty bed. He gets up, still quite bloated from his efforts the night before, and ties his robe over himself before he heads out to the kitchen. 

His sink is filled with dishes and there’s a stench of  _ real food _ in the air because when he looks over at the black marble dining table, there is the largest breakfast spread the demon’s ever seen. Eggs, toast, beans, sausage, bacon, sweet pastries, fruit, porridge, and at least three different types of juice.

Aziraphale is standing there, setting up two plates at the seats next to each other. He’s wearing an apron and a soft smile. It grows bigger when he looks up and sees Crowley. 

“Oh! Good morning, dear boy.” There’s something undeniably cheeky as he says, “I hope you’re feeling a bit peckish.” 


End file.
